by Simon Stern
My aunt by this time was behind me, and opened the door, without a blush, saying:
“Come in, Mr. Robinson. Whatever is it? The ghost? We thought it must be you.”
“No, ma’am, not the ghost. Phyllis, our neighbour’s lass, has come down with the cream, and a story as there’s no one in the house, and there’s a light in the church moving about.”
“Robbers!” I exclaimed.
“Ghosts!” cried my aunt. “I knew it.”
“Well, it’s a queer thing, and we’re goin’ to see about it. The girl’s gone with master, they do say.”
“What girl?” shrieked Aunt Martha.
“Not the pert hussy up at the house, surely?” said I.
“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “Susan has bolted, and someone has reported she was seen with master on the coast-road this afternoon.”
“The old goose!” I cried. “What did I tell you, Aunt Martha? I took that girl’s measure pretty quick!”
“Well, nothin’ will persuade me that Vicar has gone with her outside the paths of duty. No, Lucy Farmer, Vicar’s a clergyman, and ghosts from the churchyard wouldn’t persuade me otherways. Besides, who’d go along the beach-road such a night as this?”
“It ain’t so out o’ the way bad now,” remarked Robinson. “I’m goin’ down.”
“I’ll go with you,” said I.
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to be left like an owl in an ivy bush,” said my aunt. “It’s too terrifyin’. I’ll go too.”
“But the child?” I cried. “Suppose he wakes up?”
“Oh, he won’t stir; it’s only ten minutes or so. He’s old enough to lie quiet if he does wake. He’ll see the candles lighted.”
So we agreed to run down and see the ghost. The rain had ceased. Escorted by Robinson, who had a lantern, we soon reached the churchyard, which was close by, near the village side, by the inn, where the stream is. In the road and at the stile we found every living soul in the place.
Outside, the night was pitch dark. The great “perpendicular” tower was quite lost in the gloom. The trees tossed about and roared, the ivy fluttered and rustled in a most alarming way; and, sure enough, inside there was a light which moved about the chancel and the east window, which was half choked with ivy. But no one would venture near the doors, and we could not hear any sound but the terrible roaring of the wind, and a banging noise at times.
Suddenly the light went out, and we all jumped!
Then, in the darkness and in the middle of the roaring of the storm wind, which seemed increasing, the sound of horse’s hoofs were heard clattering down the hill.
“It’s the horse, the horse,” cried the women, and before you could wink every man, woman, and child present took to their heels and ran for dear life to the houses—anywhere! They had all squeezed themselves into doorways and sheds, like a “general post” in the nursery games at the Manor, in one minute.
The clattering hoofs came nearer and nearer. I was squeezed into the inn door. I couldn’t tell what had become of aunt and the keeper. I wished my husband had been there, but it was no use wishing. The hoofs came down the hill faster and faster, banging fire out of the flints as we could see. The ghost rode right up to the road and stopped for a moment. Then he made up his mind and came towards the inn.
The women pushed back and shut the door with a bang in its face. Now would it blast us with fire, or come in through the door?
We waited, shaking and quaking, to see what would happen, and then we heard a noise, and a loud kicking or thumping at the door!
Nobody dared to move. Besides it was after closing time. No one could be admitted!
But the rider would not be denied.
“Mr. Hawkin! I say, Hawkin! Open the door, there’s mischief about.”
“Aye,” muttered Hawkin, “and it shall remain outside. Go your ways in peace,” he said aloud; “go on, go on.”
“Come, no nonsense!” shouted the ghost—if it was a ghost, which I, for one, began to doubt. “Open the door or I’ll smash it. Don’t you know me; George Syme?”
“George—from The Vicarage!” cried several. “Why, what brings you here at this time o’ night?”
“On horseback too,” said others.
“Maybe it’s only a device of the Evil One,” suggested the sexton. “I’d be careful if I was you, Mr. Hawkin.”
But a sounding kick and a few hard Cornish words settled the question. Hawkin went to the door, expostulating loudly against violence and ghosts.
CHAPTER III
THE GHOST IN THE CHURCH. A DISCOVERY.
“Ghosts be hanged!” exclaimed George, as he strode into the passage, having slipped the bridle over a hasp in the wall. “What’s all this mean?”
“What’s what mean?” asked Hawkin, who, with us all, was recovering his composure. The other people who had run away were gradually coming out, like rabbits from their burrow after a shot has alarmed them.
“Why, all this about master and Susan. The house is locked up, master’s away, and everyone is not at home. What’s up?”
“It’s the Vicar’s ghost, George. It’s in the church.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the groom.
“We’ve seen it,” cried his audience.
“Seen your grandmother!’’ retorted the groom, who was perhaps nearer the truth than he knew or suspected. “Where’s master?”
“Gone to London.”
“Who says so?” asked the man, turning on the speaker. “It’s not true; he wouldn’t go like that.”
“Young man,” I said, pushing my way nearer. “I can tell you it is true. Mrs. Jacka, my aunt, and me went up to see your master this day, and that minx, named Susan, said he was packing up. Now you see why. She and he have gone off.”
“Why, she was as good as promised to me!” cried poor George. “Some o’ ye guesses that.”
“Aye, George, we do,” muttered some sympathetic voices. “We a’most knows it.”
“Well, there, is it natural that she’d go and run away with my master, as honourable a gentleman as ever stepped? No, there’s something behind all this.”
“It’s the Vicar’s ghost, George. He came yesternight.”
“And let Comet loose, I suppose. Rubbish! But why she bolted or how, I couldn’t make out, I must say.”
“She did bolt then, George?”
“Aye, and opened the stable door into the bargain. I’ve been after her ever since daylight, and found her in Saddler’s farm-yard —off by Ferrybridge yonder. I’d been on her tracks for hours.”
“I wish Mr. Mulholland or Squire Driven was home; we could fix up something then. What shall we do, Mr. Hawkin?”
“Find out what’s inside The Vicarage, or in the church,” said some sensible man in the crowd.
“All very well, but we’re incapable of it,” said the groom.
“ ’Sides, keys is in Vicar’s study,” remarked the sexton. “Drat that ghost, he should be laid by now! Listen to the wind. Someone’s busy to-night!”
“Hush, man, ye can’t tell who’s listenin’. Let’s up to Vicarage, and go in if us can,” said the sensible man again.
“That’s it,” I cried. “Perhaps it’s only a trick The Vicar may be playing on you—playing ghost.”
“And Susan gone off! Not likely! But come you up to the parsonage. I think we may get in by the study window. Mr. Atkins, don’t call it burglary now!”
“No,” replied the sensible voice; “I’ll not arrest ye, George. Come along!”
Then I discovered that the constable, the only one for miles round, was the most sensible of all. Certainly we did find out queer things that night, as everyone never suspected Mr. Atkins of such gifts, he being mostly silent. The landlord, who, as the saying goes, could “talk the hind leg off a donkey,” was looked on as far the cleverest man and the most gifted. But he didn’t hide his candles under a pewter in any way, I could see. And the very idea of candles made me think of Charley in the cottage asleep
, all alone. We better go up, I thought.
Just then Aunt Martha came to me and said, “Why, here you are, Lucy! I’m going home.”
“Quite right, aunt; it’s dreadfully stormy,” says I. “Will you find your way easy?”
“Quite easy with the lantern,” she said. “There’s no ghost, I don’t believe; and there is rheumatics. Don’t be late, Lucy, now. But bring me the news.”
I promised to do so, and she toddled off with another woman who lived top of the hill.
Then, being easier in my mind, I went with the crowd to the parsonage; and the groom, accompanied by the policeman to see fair play, put himself inside the study window, by the light of lanterns which flashed about like big fireflies, throwing queer shadows on the walls, and making giants of small people, sprawling them out on the sides of the house like imps. The constable handed the groom a light into the study, and then the window was shut down. In a moment or two candles were lighted within, and then George came into the hall with a light to open the door to the constable.
“Now, you can’t all be comin’ in,” said he. “The Vicar he wouldn’t like his house trampled on. Maybe he’s inside all the time. So stand back.”
The people didn’t like this. They began to grumble. “Parson wouldn’t mind,” they said.
“Well, then, I won’t have it,” said the constable. “We’ll have a few—Mr. Hawkin here, and Mr. Robinson; Mrs. Hawkin and the lady yonder, who’s a friend of the family from London, I understand (this was myself). We six will do all there is to be done and let you know. So keep quiet, or I’ll have you charged at Truro.”
“Six is plenty, sir,” we four said, feeling quite certain of our own share in the matter.
“Plenty,” assented the groom. “Now, we’re four men and two women. Let’s divide, and take a lady with each party. Who’ll go upstairs and who down?”
His eye happened to rest on mine, so I said, “Let us begin upstairs, and you try the basement.”
“Very well,” he said. “I, with Mr. Hawkin and the missus, will go below. Mr. Atkins, with you, ma’am and Mr. Richardson will begin at the top, and we’ll meet in the drawing-room yonder, upstairs, when we’ve finished. Now, quiet, please, all of you; any news you’ll hear quick enough.”
The people in the hall stood quiet, and as we ascended the staircase we could hear the terrible howling of the wind, and fancied that we could distinguish the thunder of the waves beating on the rocky coast as the tide came in. It was a terrible night—for the ghost!
“That’s Mr. Penlyon’s room,” whispered the constable, as we passed a door. “Shall we try it or go on?” he asked, holding up his candlestick.
“Go on, and work down,” said Mr. Robinson.
So we went on, and very soon examined the upper rooms. Susan’s apartment was first visited. Very few things were visible in it. A dress hanging up behind the door, a trunk and some bandboxes, a pair of old boots, and some other articles, thrown anyhow on the bed and on the floor, didn’t look like the trim, tidy, pert maid we had seen that morning. She had evidently been hurried in her movements.
“She’s bolted, I should say,” remarked the constable. “She’s taken light things, and left her box. What’s in it, I wonder?”
Clothing such as became a waiting-woman. A few books and some letters. But the clothes were new and clean; a pair of boots attracted my attention. They were rather large.
“A fine foot she had,” I remarked, as I took them up. “Why, what’s these?”
I stooped again and pulled from under her clean things a pair of trousers, checked pattern, which had evidently been worn a good deal.
“This is a queer start,” said the constable; “let’s turn out the jade’s box at once.”
We did so very quickly, and the rest of a suit of male attire, such as might be worn by a lad of sixteen or so—a “flash” suit, the constable called it.
“Well, so Miss Susan was fond of masquerading,” said he, after inspecting the clothes. “Did anyone ever see her in boy’s clothes, I wonder?”
While he was pulling about the trunk I opened the drawers in the dressing table and found a large quantity of fair false hair nicely done up; in another place were combs and brushes, paste, rouge, and powders, and brushes like painters’—camel’s hair things—so she could alter her face as she pleased.
“The hussy!” I remarked. “I saw at a glance that she was a bad one. I told my aunt so! Look at those things! A regular painted Jezebel!”
The men were surprised, I can tell you. “Ay, she is a bad one,” said the constable. “Suspect she has bolted with some valuables—not with Mr. Penlyon at all. She’s a thief!”
“Never!” said Robinson. “The two was together, that’s certain as sin! Come you and see further. Here’s George and his party comin’ up. What cher, George?”
“Nothing particular. Plate-chest’s locked all right, cellar locked too. Can’t find the silver candlesticks, though, in the pantry—bedroom pair. Likely in master’s room.”
“Well, we have found nothing upstairs but Susan’s things, including a lovely head of hair,” said Mr. Atkins.
George Syme started. “A head of hair!” he exclaimed, staring at the speaker.
“Aye; never mind now. Come into the Vicar’s room. Why, it’s locked! There’s no key!”
“Locked!” we exclaimed, in a chorus. Then he must have gone, we thought. Everyone drew back, and looked in turn at everyone else.
“Leave it until we have searched elsewhere,” said sensible Atkins, “and if we find any more suspicious things, or don’t find something to satisfy us, then, by George! I’ll break the door. Where’s the church keys?”
“In parson’s study,” piped the sexton. “They’re a-hanging on a nail behind the press door.”
We all hurried into the study. The keys were not there! Curiosity now was getting to a high pitch. We no longer minded the storm.
“They keys is in the church door,” squeaked a lad who had just entered. “I felt ’em in the lock, I did.”
“You’re a sensible idiot, Ben,” cried the constable, putting on his hat. “Now, them lanterns. Come along!”
We hurried out and went boldly enough into the churchyard, and up the gloomy path between the graves of the dead—graves of people who had been drowned or cast ashore dead, or who had died in their beds; men mostly, as I had already seen. We reached the church porch, and as the lantern was held up to the lock of the old oak door we perceived the key dangling from the keyhole; the door was locked, too!
By this time our fear of the ghost had considerably subsided, and, notwithstanding the howling of the storm, and the rushing gusts of wind around the church, little hesitation was shown. Mr. Atkins was quite bold, and several of his immediate followers were brave enough; the hinder ones came in with the lights being fearful to remain outside in the dismal darkness and whirling wind.
Mr. Atkins, leading the way and carrying a lantern, stepped up between the old carved pews, on which scenes of Scripture were engraved, with doves and eagles and coats of arms. He stood still near the font and called out loudly:
“Is anyone here?”
No one replied except an echo in the chapel, so he shouted again. This time we heard a moan come from the East end, and a terrible chill struck me. I daresay others felt the same. We had shivers. It was a very weird feeling. The shadowy church, just light enough to make the darkness visible; the howling wind in the belfry overhead, the dangling ropes, and humming bells—all united to make our flesh creep; and then the moan was so sad and weary!
Keeping close together, the men in front, we straggled up the aisle and examined the chancel—no one was there except ourselves. But within the communion rails, near the vestry door, lying prone on the floor quite exhausted, was an elderly woman.
“Why, it’s Missus Mumbles!” cried two or three of the spectators. “How did she come here?”
“Never mind how she came, let’s get her out. The light is accounted for
now,” said George.
The fainting woman was raised up and carried out to the inn, where she found voice enough to say: “Robbed—murdered. The master—the master!”
Some of us needed no more. Mr. Atkins rushed away, followed by Robinson, George, myself, and the Hawkins. We all guessed that the secret of Penlyon’s disappearance lay in the bedroom which was locked. Robbery and murder are ugly words.
A few well-directed blows stove the door in, and the men entered first with lanterns and candles. Sure enough on the floor under the bed was the old Vicar himself, Mr. Penlyon, dabbled in blood, and apparently lifeless. The private safe was ransacked, the chest of drawers turned out. Many papers and some valuable articles were on the floor, everything was topsy turvy, but some one who knew the place had been there, for the secret drawers were forced open.
By this time the ghost■was entirely forgotten, and the doctor was quickly fetched from his house, about three-quarters of a mile away. He came, and having examined the poor Vicar, concluded that he had had a severe blow on the head, but would come round. The gentleman then went and prescribed for Mrs. Mumbles, and the people gradually dispersed—after leaving a nurse with the parson, and George downstairs to see what was missing from the chests, which had been robbed and locked up again.
Mr. Atkins stayed also; but I made my way home with Mr. Robinson, and reached my aunt’s cottage as the clock was whirring out One!
“Well,” said Aunt Martha, “a pretty time in the morning to come home, and with Mr. Robinson! What’s the matter?”
Then I told her, and her face was a caution.
“I knew it—I said so—the ghost did it. Is the Vicar dead?”
“Not yet,” I replied; “but I’d have those two villains hanged if I had my way—a pair of ruffians, burglars—both wicked men as ever stepped.”
“What men do you mean, Lucy?” she asked.
“Why, the men who robbed and nearly killed Mr. Penlyon—Susan and——”
“You said men, Lucy,” interrupted aunt.
“And isn’t Susan a man? Of course he is! A made-up young villain, who bamboozled the old Vicar, and nearly canoodled George, the groom. I saw through the paints and the false hair. Yes, I told you he was no good.”